


Tell Me What it's Like to Burn

by Cyanide_n_Cynicism



Series: Tell Me What it's Like to Burn [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bram is a chaotic grandpa, Cats, Child Abuse, Discrimination, Fae & Fairies, Grisha and Anya are that old couple who met during WWII and have some wild stories, I'm gonna be honest, I'm here to world-build and talk about history, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's Harry Potter, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paddy is an ethereal being of indiscriminate gender, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Religion, Russians, Sex Work, Sim is the mom friend that plies you with health food, Swearing, Veela, War, World War II, and then teaches you how to kill someone efficiently and hide the body five seconds later, but other characters are referenced, cats named after people, if that's not your thing, not harry, specifically Russian politicians and composers, that should be expected, that's cool, the scholars are also feral, they are also a dumbass who accidentally poisons themselves on alternating weekends, this is a found family of scholars and one feral child, you know the one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29056782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyanide_n_Cynicism/pseuds/Cyanide_n_Cynicism
Summary: “Aunt told me my name today,” he rasped, “said I needed to know for school.”“Well,” Sim prompted tenderly, “what is it?”“It’s Harry,” he cut out, cleared his throat, “Harry James Potter.” Silence, and then...“Well, that complicates things a bit, doesn’t it?”
Relationships: Harry Potter & Original Female Character(s), Harry Potter & Original Male Character(s)
Series: Tell Me What it's Like to Burn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823743
Kudos: 7





	1. What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. After a few false starts, we have the beginning!
> 
> Oops?

You are three years old, and the dark scares you. Aunt throws you in the cupboard under the stairs because you burned dinner. It isn’t so bad at first. Light creeps in under the door, and eventually, your eyes adjust. The difficulty comes when Aunt and Uncle go to bed, turning out every lamp in the house. The darkness that closes in is suffocating, and you can’t breathe, you _can’t see_.

Aunt leaves you there for three days, only letting you out for chores. Perhaps, then, you are like a broom - _mop, feather duster_. It’s a ridiculous thought because you know you’re not any of those things. You are a _boy_ , a _freak_. The absurdity of it makes you smile through your tears anyway.

You are four years old, and the dark doesn’t scare you anymore. They don’t hurt you if they can’t see you. Shadows cradle your aching body and hide you away from prying eyes. The dark is safe.

It is the cold that lingers unpleasantly. Even the hottest days - sun searing your skin - the chill seeps into the cracks in your skin and hides there. Your bones rattle and quake and you dress yourself in as many tattered layers as you can. It doesn’t help.

You are five years old, and the cold is a constant ache drumming around in your bones. _You wonder if this is what that old sailor meant when he said his joints could predict storms_. Now, you know that you are not the only strange thing in existence. The oddities that happen when you’re scared or upset are a natural occurrence.

The way that the world around you reacts, however, is _not_ . The way the cats and crows follow you in the shadows when you wander the neighbourhood is _not_.

You roam the streets and the forests with equal ease. Beings big and small go out of their way to teach you tricks and tell you tales. And when you inquire what they’d like in return, all they ask is that you _remember them_. You’d be more suspicious if it didn’t make a familiar sort of sense.

They are just as odd as you are, and this fact is _liberating_. You’ve learnt to see underneath the underneath. The world is more beautiful and strange than Aunt and Uncle have led you to believe. There is no such thing as perfect normalcy.

_“After all_ ,” the Regulars are so fond of saying, “ _Normal is an illusion_ .” If you were allowed to have such a thing as favourites, they would be it. They were a diverse gathering of people that you’d met at the local library; the _magical_ library.

*

It was so well hidden that he’d never have found it without the cat. One of the watchers, it was missing all of one ear and half of the other, half of its tail, and it’s right foreleg. The left eye was milky white while the other, which was blue, seemed to look deep into the boy’s soul. Fur was a mottled mess of calico that stuck up like the cat had been electrocuted at some point.

The cat wore a permanent sneer on account of missing part of its upper lip. A mangled old bastard, Boy loved it in an instant. _Well, as much as he could ever_ _love anything that is_.

It took months to earn its trust, but it was worth it when the cat led Boy to the library. A dilapidated brick building with a tarnished plaque stated it was the Hypatia Athenaeum. He didn’t know what that meant exactly, but it sounded important. The outside might have been unimpressive, but the _inside_ …

It reminded him of cathedrals in the same way ruins brought castles to mind. While it had the high, vaulted ceilings _(like the ribs of some great beast)_ , stone arches and stained-glass windows, that was where the similarity ended.

The black floor was made of some type of stone, shot through with veins of gold. The walls were painted in dark jewel tones. Every light source was _stained glass,_ from the spaces between the ceiling’s ribs; to the giant windows; to the lanterns and chandeliers drifting in the air. And of course, being a library, it was stuffed to the rafters with bookshelves on every topic imaginable.

The Hypatia Athenaeum was a space of learning, warm with light and alive with greenery. It took less than an hour to become Boy’s favourite place. Whether dozing in a pool of sunlight or sitting in a quiet corner to read, he could spend hours there. And he wasn’t the only one.

Among the few visitors were a group of regulars that hardly ever left. The boy had never asked after their circumstances, still wary of posing too many questions, but they were all intelligent and unique individuals; experts in their fields of study.

*

The first person he met was Abraham _(call me Bram)_ Stockerton, introduced when the boy had tentatively wandered in trailing the cat, whose name was apparently _Rasputin_. An odd name for a cat, to be sure, but Bram assured him it was fitting.

He was a tall, sturdy man of serene temperament and a scholarly disposition. A history professor at the London University, Bram handled the front desk and gave recommendations when the boy was stuck on what to read next. He would forever swear that Bram had read every single book in the library.

A few months in and he’d met the rest of The Regulars: Adelina Constanza Santiago _(Just Lina. Pass me that socket wrench, would you Chiquito?)_ , a Hispanic engineer? Scientist? Who mixed technology with runes. Nasima Al-Hakim _(Have a snack and call me Sim, dear)_ , a middle-eastern doctor investigating the effects of magic on the body. And Padrika Fairchilde _(Paddy)_ , a mycologist of mysterious origins.

But of all of them, he preferred Anya _(Anastasiya Yakovlevna Volkova)_ and Grisha _(Grigorij Sobolevich Volkov)_. A pair of writers, they were a quieter sort than the others. They were soft-spoken when they spoke at all, more often than not communicating through simple gestures—a double-tap of fingers on the table or small nudge against a shoe.

It was such a gentle way of attracting attention. So very different from Uncle’s blustering, Aunt’s shrieking or Cousin’s whinging. The steady clacking of Anya’s typewriter, the smooth scratching of Grisha’s fountain pen on paper, was soothing in the silence.

He knew they were watching him, of course. Neither of them bothered to hide their curiosity, but they didn’t press him. And, as days went by, he grew comfortable in their presence. It was such a strange sensation that he didn’t know what to do with it at first.

Striking up the courage to ask a few questions was as rewarding as it was enlightening. They were from the Soviet Union, which explained their accents. Their voices, ocean deep with the hush of sea on the sand and the soft clinking of seashells. Their R's rolled softly in a way that reminded him of a cat's purr. He could listen to them for hours _(he had)._

When Grisha could talk in circles and say nothing at all, Anya was brisk and to-the-point. When Anya was sharp and a bit too insensitive, Grisha was there to smooth things over with a charming close-lipped smile. They were unlike any married couple he’d ever seen.

With every month, his trust in them grew, and with it came a flood of physical affection. Fingers tugged tenderly through his hair, tapped rhythms on his fragile bones. Every bruise and scrape he received from the Dursleys was treated with care. And, ever so slowly, they began to teach him their languages.

Silent communication came effortlessly, gestures and stray fidgets were given meaning. The rolling language was Russian, and it was a bit more complicated. There was a whole new alphabet to learn, symbols with their own particular sounds. It was as fascinating as it was frustrating, but the boy absorbed it all like a sponge.

They taught him, healed him, gave him information and expected nothing in return. They expected nothing, but the beings had taught him all about trade and equivalent exchange. _Well, they’d told him to remember them._

And so the boy taught them everything he’d been taught himself. The sum of his information wasn’t much, but the Russians were nonetheless intrigued by his tales and tricks. And whenever he’d learn something new - _as he hadn’t stopped his wanderings_ \- the boy would share it with all of the Regulars. _They all cared for him in their own ways, after all._

His only regret was that he couldn’t give them a name to call him by. It didn’t deter them, as they made up their own, but none of them felt like _his_. A name is not a _Name_ unless it calls to your soul and encompasses your existence. That's not to say he didn't like some of them. _Volchonok_ \- little wolf - was his personal favourite.

So there he was, five years old and spending every moment he could, out of Privet Drive. It was a shock Aunt had caught him at all. But one early morning, before she’d even started the coffee, catch him she did. He’d be starting primary soon, Aunt told him, and there were things he needed to know so that he didn’t stick out as a _freak, understand boy_?

She informed him that his parents were Lily and James Potter, he was _Harry_ James Potter, and his birthday was on the thirty-first of July. She drilled him relentlessly until the boy could recite it flawlessly, without stuttering. And then she sent him on his way because _the ladies in the book club were coming over and she didn’t need them asking questions_.

How strange, he thought, that what was supposed to be _his_ felt more like ill-fitting clothes and less like an identity. Making his way to the Athenaeum, he pondered. _Harry James Potter_ had had parents. The boy without a name hadn’t had anyone; until the Beings; until the Regulars; until _Anya_ and _Grisha_.

Yes, he decided. He would tell them the name regardless, even if it was not _his_.

Today was evidently a research day, scheduled to bounce questions and ideas off one another. Generally a respectful collaboration, it was peaceful until it _wasn’t_ ; but he hadn’t been around for one of _those_ quite yet. _Knives_ , of all things, had come up the last time he’d asked.

Everyone was gathered at one of the long tables, huddled together in groups. Sim and Paddy sat huddled behind a mountain of mycology journals. Bram lounged beside them and flipped through a book: _Murder With Medicinals_ by Nizari Ismailis, and occasionally interjected.

On the other side of the table, Lina grilled Anya and Grisha on runes, skimming textbooks and mechanical manuals that looked like they were from the Rennaissance. Knocking lightly on the table got their attention well enough, but he had to pause. Having their undivided attention was a bit intimidating.

“Aunt told me my name today,” he rasped, “said I needed to know for school.”

“Well,” Sim prompted tenderly, “what is it?”

“It’s Harry,” he cut out, cleared his throat, “Harry James Potter.” Silence, and then...

“Well, that complicates things a bit, doesn’t it?”


	2. The Master Plan (or something along those lines)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did they forget to tell him about that? Oops?

_“It’s Harry,” he cut out, cleared his throat, “Harry James Potter.” Silence, and then..._

_“Well, that complicates things a bit, doesn’t it?”_

“More difficult, but still not impossible,” Anya agreed with her husband. “We’ll need to rethink strategy.” They nodded like they’d made any sense at all. Presumably, they had because the other four seemed to agree. Harry – _no, it still didn’t fit_ – made a questioning noise in the back of his throat and furrowed his brows.

“You didn’t _tell him_?” Bram piped incredulously for the whole group. The Russians stared at each other, then at Harry, then at each other.

“We forgot to tell him,” Grisha pointed out.

“We did. I thought you were going to do it.”

“Well, _I_ thought _you_ were going to.”

After a fierce round of rock-paper-scissors – which Grisha won with a triumphant cry – they ushered the boy to the kitchen. Apparently, this was a conversation that required culinary fortification. The boy hadn’t even known the library _had_ a kitchen. Then again, he’d been a bit too preoccupied with the books and the people to do any exploring.

“Since when was there a kitchen?” he asked.

“Since always?” Anya supplied with visible confusion. She’d put the kettle on and begun arranging little sandwiches on plates.

“I don’t think he’s seen anything but the Athenaeum.” Harry nodded, and Grisha settled in for the coming explanations. “Athenaeum is just fancy word for library,” Grisha began. “In fact, it’s only a section of greater Hypatia University of Magical Research.”

He went on to say that the University was one of the oldest buildings in the world, and, even more impressive, it was still used for its original purpose. ( _Bram himself had founded the University, which threw the boy for a loop because Bram didn’t seem that old._ ) In its prime, the university catered to all of Europe, parts of Africa, and most of the Middle East.

Attendance plummeted amidst the Crusades and continued to fall throughout the Black Plague and the witch trials. By the time of the World Wars, people had forgotten that the University existed in anything but old records.

“But if _everyone_ forgot,” Harry wondered, “how did you find it?”

“That,” Anya said, “is tale for another time. To make long story short, Bram found most of us during his travels, invited us home, and we never left.” Harry agreed, even though there was clearly more to be said on the subject. “Now, would you prefer jam in tea?” He shook his head, never having been a fan of sweets.

With the sandwiches and tea laid out, they got down to business.

“We’ve noticed, over past few months, that home-life is–” Grisha considered his words, “not the best.” Anya went to interject, her expression sceptical. “ _Not_ the _best_ ,” he enunciated sternly. She surrendered, but the dubious look stayed as she sipped her tea. “We’ve grown rather fond of you, and we were wondering–”

“–Hoping, really–”

“ –Yes, we were _hoping_ that we could gain custody of you,” Grisha’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm until Anya reached out to intertwine their hands.

“What does that mean?” The boy knew what it _sounded_ like, but surely that’s not what they meant. They couldn’t _possibly_ –

“It means,” Grisha chose his words carefully, “that instead of going back to relatives’ house, you would stay with us. Here. And we would provide for you.” The boy’s eyes were about as wide as dinner plates, but he kept his mouth shut. “It’s not adoption,” the man hurried to add. “We wouldn’t adopt you–I mean–unless you wanted us to,” Harry had never seen the charming man so discomposed, but he still said nothing. “Not that we don’t _want_ to adopt you–”

“What he means to say,” Anya stepped in, and Grisha gave an explosive sigh of relief, “is that we want to take care of you. We would _love_ to adopt you as child, for you to call us parents, but it’s not _our_ place to make that decision, it’s _yours_ ,” she said solemnly.

“For now, we just want to know how you would feel about living with us,” Anya finished, and the boy felt the weight of his future settle on his fragile shoulders. It was a crucial decision to make, but he felt strangely comfortable with the weight of it.

He considered how he felt about the pair. He thought of Grisha’s wandering way with words, purposefully vague but always leading him to the correct conclusion. The way Anya was straightforward and abrupt but answered every one of his questions even if he didn’t like it, maybe _especially_ if he wouldn’t like it.

He thought of their easy affection that they extended to him without thought. How they taught him without expecting anything in return. How they accepted his scattered teachings curiously and without judgement. And then the boy realised.

He felt content with the weight of his future _because he could say no_ . They would _let him_ say no. No matter that they were both nervous and hopeful, the pair would still allow him to make a choice. And this is what ultimately decided it for him.

“Yes,” breathy and soundless. The boy cleared his throat and tried again, “Yeah, okay.”

“Yes?” and their faces lit up when he nodded. It was possibly the happiest expression anyone had ever directed at him. A blink later and he’d been bundled into Anya’s lap, and from there, both of them were enfolded in Grisha’s arms.

It could have been ten minutes. It could have been an hour. The boy only knew that he felt warm for the first time since he could remember. Hugs were even better than sitting in the sun in all his meagre layers. It just figured that a thought would make itself known the moment he relaxed.

“Wait,” he squinted suspiciously, “why does my _name_ change anything?” The couple exchanged wary glances, having a silent conversation. Several false starts later, and Anya was nominated to break the news.

“Ah,” Anya began cautiously. “Well, you see–”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grisha: we’re having a baby.
> 
> Harry: oh, okay, that’s gr–
> 
> Anya, slamming down a pad of adoption papers: it’s you, sign here.


End file.
